Casinos and slot machines just not my cup of tea

It has been quite awhile since George William and I went to Cherokee, N.C., to see the outdoor drama “Unto These Hills.”

We stayed at Harrah’s Hotel and Casino where he could gamble and I would people watch.

We did both for all of 10 minutes or the length of time it took to walk from one end of the casino to the other.

The casino was noisy, smoky and the beautiful people were nowhere to be seen.

Through the years, we have visited some lovely casinos, Wiesbaden on the Rhine and Baden Baden in the Black Forest.

In the 1950s, we went to a small, elegant casino in Garmisch Partenkirchen where European women, fingers heavy with diamonds, furs thrown carelessly on the back of their chairs sat beside men in dark suits, croupiers in tuxedos, sound dissolved with thick carpeting, the air full of perfume and Egyptian tobacco, lights over gambling tables, corners of the room in shadow.

Surely, James Bond was there somewhere.

We, peons that we were, went down to the cellar where the insignificant slot machines were kept.

George William hit the one Deutsche mark jackpot. It was almost an embarrassment to claim it.

When Tamela and I drove to the jazz festival in New Orleans, we stayed en route at the Royal Oaks Bed and Breakfast in Atmore, Ala.

It took us two minutes to put our bags inside and head back out the door into the rainy night.

Not a quarter mile away was a multi-storied hotel and casino. It was 8 p.m. as we rode up and saw that the parking lots were full.

A friendly security guard greeted us at the door. This was no small elegant casino and instead of silk, many of the clientele sported polyester and were using walkers. Not a coat and tie to be seen.

There were no table games, only slot machines. Forget the lemons and cherries and the buckets of coins. These slots feature downright weird creatures and unfathomable patterns.

No alcohol is allowed and there are multiple soft drink dispensers which were for the most part ignored.

We strolled around the perimeter of the casino’s enormous room passing a line of people waiting for some sort of card, a gift shop where Tamela bought a hat, a cooking school, the hotel’s registration desk, two restaurants and a stage.

Blinking away, the slot machines must use enough electricity for a small town.

Although there were several women going around cleaning out the ash trays and a super air filter had been installed, the room smelled of smoke. “Oh,” we were told, “There is a non-smoking room.” We found it, down the hallway playing host to one lone player.

Someone said that the megamega million dollar loan for the complex had been paid off in one year and they had been known to donate as much as $200,000 to charities in the town.

Big gamblers that we are, Tamela and I put in five $1 bills and considered it an admission fee. The was money was inhaled by the slot machine.

We never saw anyone resembling James and after a very brief stay, we left to return to the Royal Oaks where we slept well in that historic property which has been in owner Foster Kizer’s family for more than 100 years.

That’s twice I’ve gone into stateside casinos. No, make that three times if I include the time I stuck my head in the door of a very smoky casino down in Florida. You would think that I had learned this is a venue not for me. Las Vegas doesn’t count, does it?